


What Happens in Cheshire

by cloudy_blue



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Bad Flirting, Character Study, Conversations, Developing Friendships, Established Relationship, F/M, Gen, M/M, Period Typical Attitudes, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-14 05:09:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28540110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cloudy_blue/pseuds/cloudy_blue
Summary: Sometimes, when they get like this – John, mostly, but Paul too if he drinks enough – filthy and suggestive, innuendos so pointed it feels almost like flirting – well, Ringo does wonder.Forty-five minutes in New Brighton, October 1962. Or, five conversations in a night.
Relationships: Brian Epstein/John Lennon, John Lennon/Paul McCartney, Maureen Cox/Ringo Starr
Comments: 6
Kudos: 71





	What Happens in Cheshire

**Author's Note:**

> I started this as practice for writing John's voice and it spiralled. This is pretty dialogue-heavy so I hope it reads okay. I know very little about Rory Storm and the Hurricanes, I did some research and I am fairly certain Lu Walters was still a Hurricane in 1962 but if he was not - then I am sorry, please pretend he was. The Beatles and the Hurricanes performed as support acts for Little Richard at the Tower Ballroom in New Brighton (Cheshire) in Octobe1962 - that is true, the rest is completely fictional.

**i (11.15 p.m.)**

“Oi,” Ringo calls, as John and Paul make their way over, weaving through the press of people. “Where’ve you been, then?”  
“Wanted a ciggie,” John says, although the air around their little table is thick with smoke already. Ringo supposes old habits die hard; John’s complained enough times about his auntie back in Liverpool who hated him smoking in his room.  
“Fresh air,” Paul says, at the same time. They glance at each other and grin. “It’s hot in here, is all,” Paul says.

John puts his hand on George’s shoulder for support as he climbs into the space between him and Ringo, nudging Ringo with his elbow when he’s comfortable.

“Where’d Mo go, then?”  
“Ladies, I think,” Ringo says. John hums.  
“She’s a right cracker, Ritch,” John says.  
“Careful, Ritch, he’s got his eye on her,” Rory says, grinning. Ringo laughs.  
“He’ll have to take his eye off her,” he says. “She’s great.”  
“I’d never,” John says. “Happy with what I’ve got, me.”  
“Ow,” says Paul. “Stop kicking me, arsehole.”

John puts a hand against his mouth, not quite quick enough to hide his smile.

“Has Little Richard come by yet?” Paul asks.  
“Christ,” George says.  
“You’re worse than the girls at the Cavern,” John tells him. “ _Ooh, Richard, kiss me, look at me, let me touch your hair –_ Ow!”  
“You deserved that,” Paul says.  
“He hasn’t come by, Paul,” Rory says, nicely.  
“Oh,” Paul says.

John frowns.

“Christ alive, Lu, is that the moustache?” he says.

Lu preens, tracing one finger across the little line of hair on his top lip.

“Haven’t seen it up close before,” John says.  
“Still can’t see it, it’s barely there,” George mutters. John grins at him, sidelong.  
“Looks like something died on your mouth, mate,” John says. Paul laughs. Lu scowls. Ringo hides a smile in his pint. “And does he get a lot of girls, now, Rory?”  
“Not hardly,” Rory says, jostling Lu companionably.

Brian appears. He puts one hand on John’s shoulder and leans in, close enough to Ringo that he catches it too,

“John, can I have a word, please?”  
“Nah, Bri, you’re alright,” John says, peaceably.  
“John, really, it’s important.”  
“Life-threatening?”  
“Well, no –”  
“Then it can wait, Eppy, sit down.”

Brian hovers, uncomfortable, and gives in, sitting awkwardly on the edge of the free chair between George and Rory.

“Where’ve you been, then?” Paul says. Brian glances over at him; a little surprised, a little irritated, perhaps, in the twist of his mouth before his expression smooths over.  
“Outside,” he says. “Looking for you two.”  
“Yeah, us two,” Paul mutters. “I bet you were.”

Ringo catches George’s eye. George is the closest thing Ringo has to a Beatle-translator, and he raises his eyebrows now, like _what’s going on_? George shakes his head, rolls his eyes. Alright, that’s something else Ringo’s gonna have to work out for himself.

He’d thought before joining the band that Paul was the nice one, easy-going, up for a laugh, that sort of thing, but always a professional. That’s how he’d seemed in Hamburg and the shows Ringo caught them at in Liverpool. So now, one of them, he isn’t entirely sure why Paul stops being so professional, so smooth and polished, when he talks to their only professional contact. He’d mentioned it to George and he hadn’t gotten much of an answer, George had muttered something vague about John and the balance of power and _oh, you know Paul,_ as if the problem was not precisely that, that Ringo didn’t know Paul at all.

“Did you see Mo out there, Eppy?” he asks, leaning past John to catch his eye. Brian’s eyes flit over to John but John’s not looking, picking absently at a long splinter of wood coming up from the worn side of the table.  
“No, I didn’t, did she go outside?”  
“Went to the loo a bit ago, is all,” Ringo says. “I was just wondering.”  
“I’m surprised you let her come up with this lot, y’know, Ritch,” John says.  
“What do you mean?”  
“Lu’s moustache, girls go mad for it.”  
“Oh piss off,” Lu snaps.  
“Nah, Lu’s alright,” Rory says, always loyal. “Were you at Cilla’s party last weekend?”  
“No, we were in –” Ringo glances across at the rest of them.

It’s all one to him – bashing about in the back of Neil’s van with their knees clamped around their most delicate pieces of equipment, passing around a half-bottle of brandy or whiskey, whatever John shoved in his coat in the offie before they left, the rise and fall of their voices, fractured arguments and inside jokes and their loud, laughing renditions of other people’s music.

“Wales?” George guesses.  
“Cheshire,” John says.  
“London?” Paul says.  
“Well, anyway, he made it with – you know Sally Warner? Redhead, she lives up by you, John.”  
“Yeah, she’s a slag,” John says, easily. “Even Georgie’s made it with her, haven’t you, Geo?”  
“Get fucked,” George says, mildly. “Give us a ciggie, Johnny.”

John sits forward to take a carton out of his back pocket and slide it across the table.

“Like you do better,” Lu says, bristling.

There’s a scattered jeer around the table. George rolls his eyes and reaches for the half-empty pint Johnny Byrne had abandoned in favour of a pretty girl by the bar. Ringo watches Brian stare, clearly torn between horror and fascination, as George drains it and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Like it’s hard to do better than you,” John scoffs. Lu spreads his hands.  
“Go on then, mate.”  
“Alright, well, last night –”  
“You had the best sex of your life _last night_?” Lu interrupts, disbelieving.  
“John,” Brian says, warningly. John glances over, scratches absently at the side of his nose before shaking his head.  
“Well, no, alright, but – I dunno, a couple weeks ago.”  
“What, back home?” Rory asks, laughing. “Do we know her?”  
“Uh,” John says. “No.”  
“Because you’re making her up as you go along?” Lu suggests. John scowls at him.  
“ _No,_ alright, Walters, I’ll tell ye.” He takes another ciggie out of his carton and sits back to light up. “It was last Monday and it’d blow Sally fucking Warner out the water.”  
“Last Monday,” Ringo says. “Hang on, though. We were in Cheshire, last Monday. Or Wales or London. Right, Eppy?”  
“Oh,” Brian says, vaguely. “I don’t know.”  
“Yeah, we were because we missed Cilla’s party,” Ringo says. “And –” He turns to Paul. “Where were you, while he was with this bird? Because you said you were writing, and me and Georgie went to dinner without you.”  
“Oh,” Paul says. He sets his pint down on the table, scrubs his palm along the watermark. “I was – Well, I was –”  
“He was with me,” Brian says. “With me. We went out.”  
“Yeah, I remember that,” George says.

John makes a strange, stifled sound. His eyes are bright, barely repressed amusement. Ringo doesn’t quite get the joke, or why Paul looks suddenly murderous.

“Who cares where they were, tell us about the bird,” Rory says. “Go on, Johnny.”  
“Real firecracker,” John says. He blows smoke out his nostrils. “Dead gorgeous.”

Brian puts his head in his hand. George puts his cigarette out in the dregs of Johnny Byrne’s beer.

“All legs and eyes,” John continues, dreamily. “Real looker.”  
“Why was she with you, then?” Lu asks. Rory chuckles. “Street-corner type, was she?”  
“Nah,” John says, turning his head to smile at Paul. “Nice little thing, dinner and drinks, that sort, y’know. Wanted her to have a good time. Which she did.” He puts his cigarette between his lips and then removes it to say, smirking, “twice.”

Paul rolls his eyes and disappears behind his pint.

“So do you think you’ll see this girl again then, John?”  
“Oh, yeah,” John says. “I reckon I’ll see her again. I hope so.”  
“Come back to Cheshire for her,” Rory teases.  
“Or Wales,” John says. “Or London.”  
“Soft,” Paul scoffs.

Ringo frowns at them. He thinks it’s a little strange that they all remember this night so clearly, Brian and George and Paul, and yet they can’t remember where they were. He certainly doesn’t remember Brian and Paul going out together one night _ever_ let alone last week – but he can’t think of a reason for Georgie to lie, so he must be forgetting something.

Then there’s a hand on Ringo’s shoulder and Maureen reappears, sliding one arm across his chest to press a kiss to his cheek.

“Alright, love?” he says, turning in to face her, and then tug her onto his lap, relieved for the distraction. “Thought you might have gotten lost.”  
“Thanks for sending out the search party,” she says, dryly. “There was just a – A queue for the ladies.”  
“D’you reckon Richard got lost?” Paul says.  
“ _Richard_ ,” John and George echo, jeering.  
“First name basis are you, Paulie? All familiar-like?” John says. Paul ignores him.  
“He _did_ say he was gonna join us here, didn’t he, Ritch?”  
“He did,” Ringo agrees.  
“Reckon he got a better offer,” John says. He puts his elbow on the table, chin on his hand and leans in, batting his eyelids. “Or did you say you’d put out if he bought you a drink?”

Maureen’s hand twitches against Ringo’s shoulder but Paul only sighs, long-suffering.

It looks like it’s going to slide sideways and become one of those conversations where Ringo recognises all the words and yet somehow seems to entirely miss the meaning. They’re getting less and less frequent, he thinks he’s starting to understand them, all three of them, as individuals not just the three-headed monster, John-and-Paul-and-George. But when it’s John and Paul, it’s still John-and-Paul, and Ringo’s on the outside looking in.

There had been a moment, a week or so into his working with them properly, when he had been waiting for them outside a pub or a club and the door was propped open and he had heard a fraction of quiet conversation so entirely unexpected, it had seemed to suggest they were sleeping with each other.

Then they’d come outside to join him, John walking strangely so the tops of his knees kept hitting Paul’s back and Paul cracked up with laughter, trying to swat him away. 

He’d thought about asking George but lost his nerve; he thought George might thump him at the suggestion.

It would be a ridiculous suggestion, anyway; John and Paul are more interested in girls than almost any bloke Ringo has ever met.

Sometimes, though, when they get like this – John, mostly, but Paul too if he drinks enough – filthy and suggestive, innuendos so pointed it feels almost like flirting – well, he does wonder.

But it’s always blink and you’ll miss it. Already, Paul is smiling.

“He’s even better in person than he is on the records, don’t you think?”  
“Yeah he’s gear,” Rory enthuses. “Really great.”

John pushes his chair back and stands up, clapping one hand on Ringo’s shoulder as he passes, shouldering his way through the crowd towards the toilet. A moment later, Brian gets up and follows him.

George reaches over the table and shoves Paul upside the head.

“Ow,” Paul says, flatly.  
“What did you think of our set then, Paul?” Rory asks. Paul, still rubbing his head, turns to smile at him.  
“Oh yes, very good,” he says. “Brand New Cadillac, especially. Last time I saw that, I could’ve slept through it, but tonight was great, really fab.”  
“We’ve been getting more practice,” Rory says. “Now you’ve not taken all the sets going at the Cavern.”

Paul laughs.

“Ay, Johnny and I were just saying, when we’re next home for more than a minute we want to come and see you play.”  
“What about me and Ritch?” George says. Paul doesn’t look at him.  
“Yes, obviously,” he says. George scowls, stands up, puts one hand in the small of his back to stretch.  
“I’m going outside,” he says. “For a smoke. An _actual_ smoke,” he adds, viciously, although Ringo hadn’t heard anyone suggest otherwise.

Paul glances up at that, brow furrowed.

“D’you want my light?” he calls after him. George stops, turns, comes back towards them with his hand outstretched.  
“Yes,” he says, grumpily. Paul smiles at him, passes it over.

Maureen slides off Ringo’s lap.

“I’m gonna go with him,” she says. “Fresh air sounds nice.”  
“D’you want me –” Ringo begins.  
“No, it’s alright, I’ll be right back,” she says, pressing a kiss to the top of his head as she passes.

Ringo tilts his chair back to watch her go and then lets it crash back onto all four legs. He starts tapping out a beat against the surface of the table until Rory clicks his tongue.

“Forgot how bloody irritiating you were,” he says, grinning.  
“Little Richard was cool, wasn’t he?” Paul says.  
“Yeah,” Ringo agrees. Meeting Little Richard had propelled him back into the dreamy wonderland of his first week as a Beatle – the haircut, the clothes that Brian had arrived outside his door with, the record contract, the strange, larger-than-life personalities he was suddenly expected to work out how to understand. “Dead cool.”  
“Maybe we’ll meet Elvis next,” Paul says. He twists round in his seat. “Where’s John gone?”  
“Bathroom,” Rory says.  
“Been in there a while,” Paul says.  
“Well, he’s full of shit, isn’t he?” Lu mutters, darkly. He seems almost surprised when Paul and Ringo laugh too.  
“And then some,” Paul agrees. “I’m gonna get another pint. Want one?”  
“Nah, you’re alright,” Ringo says and Rory and Lu mutter politely too.

When Paul’s out of earshot, they both tug their chairs closer to the table and lean over, conspiratorial.

“Alright, spill, Ritch, what are they like?”  
“What do you mean?” Ringo says, amused. “You’ve spent coming on six hours with them tonight alone. We’ve known ‘em for years, what do you mean, _what are they like_?”  
“To work with,” Rory says. “To live with, to play with.”  
“Who’s better, them or us?” Lu says, grinning.

Ringo shakes his head. The comparison wouldn’t be fair. Sometimes it felt like more fun as a Hurricane but that was because it was mostly for fun; John and Paul and George eat, sleep, drink, breathe, bleed music, it’s part of them in a way Ringo understands, although ask him two months ago and he’s not sure he’d have the same answer. He can see his life opening up before him with them, lights on a dark road: _toppermost of the poppermost, Johnny_!

“Ay, Ritch, it’s only a bit of teasing,” Rory says. Good old Rory, plain-spoken, honest Rory.  
“I knew what was going on with you lot, though,” Ringo says. “That’s something I miss.”  
“I can imagine.”  
“No way John fucked a girl in Cheshire,” Lu says. “We’re in Cheshire right now, not a looker in the place.”  
“Christ Lu, say that a little louder,” Rory says.

Ringo laughs. He picks up his pint and then he sets it down again. He thinks – _no way John fucked a girl in Cheshire_ and then _no way John fucked a girl,_ a girl, _in Cheshire_.

_No,_ he thinks, _no way._

“Gift of the gab, that one,” Rory says. “You should hear Iris talk about them – ”  
“Hey,” Maureen says, dropping into the empty seat next to Ringo. Across the room, George has sagged against the bar next to Paul, driving an elbow into Paul’s side as Paul recoils, scowling.   
“Hey,” Ringo says. “You alright?”  
“Alright.”  
“George owe you money?” Lu asks, sagely. Maureen laughs.  
“Owed me a ciggie, more like,” she says. “What are we talking about?”  
“Beatles versus Hurricanes,” Lu says. “Go on Mo, impartial vote.”  
“I’m hardly impartial,” she says, sliding a hand up the back of Ringo’s neck to curl her fingers in his hair.

He grins across the table at them, smug as anything, and he’s still smiling when he leans in to kiss her.

“Oughta charge a shilling, before starting with that,” John says, from behind them. Mo pulls back.  
“Only a shilling?” she says.

John, crouched down beside them, one hand on the back of Ringo’s chair for support, cackles, delighted.

“No, no, carry on. Where’s Macca gone?”  
“Bar,” Ringo says. “Piss off.”  
“Ay ay, cap’n,” John says, tipping him a salute as he straightens up.  
“He is a bit strange, isn’t he?” Maureen whispers, carefully. “Nice. But strange.”  
“Mad as a hatter, Paul always says,” Ringo agrees, cheerfully. “Glad you’re here, Mo, to suffer them with me.”  
“Me too,” she says, and leans in to kiss him again.

* * *

**ii (11.30 p.m.)**

“John!” Brian says.

John’s head reappears around the stall door. He takes in Brian, stood with one hand against the bathroom door to stop anyone coming in after them. He smirks.

“I’m flattered, Eppy, but I’m not sure I’ve got another round in me.”

Brian frowns at him.

“I told you to be _careful_ ,” he says. “Was that careful?”  
“From your tone, I’m guessing no,” says John. He’s still grinning as he disappears into the cubicle to piss. “No one saw, Eppy, except you, you dirty pervert.”   
“And you’re lucky!” Brian says. “Maureen went out there too. What would she think, if she caught a scene like that?”  
“That me and Paulie are _very, very good friends_ ,” John chirps. He comes back out, refastening his trousers, and crosses to the sink. He meets Brian’s eyes in the mirror. “You ought to be thanking me, Bri, really. I thought if I didn’t get him off, he’d be half-mast in front of –” He pitches his voice to a ridiculous falsetto, batting his eyes, which is his favourite and least convincing impression of Paul. “ _Little Richard_!”  
“Thanking you,” Brian echoes. “What, for the sacrifice of getting your –”

He can’t quite stomach the end of the sentence; embarrassment wins out. John’s grin widens.

“Cock sucked?” he suggests, smug. “Well I thought I’d let him suck mine and then he wouldn’t be tempted by Little Dickie. He’s been making eyes at our Paul all night, Bri, haven’t you noticed? That’d be much harder to keep out the papers.” He turns to face Brian, shaking his hands dry. “Liverpool Lad Really Will Do _Anything_ to Become A Star. Be- _come,_ Bri, get it?”

Brian has the beginnings of a headache developing behind his right eye and the distinct sense that he’s about to lose control of the conversation entirely, watch it wander off in all sorts of wild directions.

“I’m not sure how likely I think that is,” he says, diplomatically.   
“It’s not my best, but the journos will have more time to think of a better one,” John says.   
“I didn’t mean the pun. I meant –” These conversations are always so much easier in his head. “You think everyone makes eyes at Paul.”  
“That’s because most people do,” John says. “Most people. But not everyone, right?”  
“Not everyone, no,” Brian says, uncomfortably.

John’s smile flickers so quickly, Brian might have imagined it. He would be convinced he had imagined it, if John didn’t keep making comments like that, sidelong, angled at Brian, and then smiling to himself when Brian blusters over the answer. Brian can’t be imagining every instance; he simply doesn’t have the time.

And anyway, it’s dangerous, it’s a trap, to wander off the path and get lost in trying to navigate where John’s mind goes, when he says things like that. Better to stick to the plan.

“Look, John, you’re going to get yourself into trouble carrying on like that, you and Paul, and I know you don’t want that so –”  
“ _Carrying on like that_ ,” John echoes. “What a joke. Don’t bloody patronise me, Brian.”  
“I didn’t mean –” 

But John barrels over him.

“And I like Paul with a bit of trouble, trouble’s good for him, it keeps him from tuning into his dad.”

Three months ago, when he first found out about them, Brian had gone to Paul.

Paul could usually be relied upon to see the sensible side of things. Paul had – up to that point – agreed with Brian on every issue that came up: their suits, their behaviour during shows, their haphazard way of organizing themselves and he had helped cajole, bribe and threaten the others into agreeing too. So Brian had been expecting a conversation which, although it might be a little awkward, would end with Paul nodding and smiling and promising to make sure John was more careful too.

Instead, he had received a response that skirted genuine dislike, a frostiness that implied real anger if Brian dared try the subject again.

He hadn’t. It had been made clear to him that Paul had expected him to ignore it entirely, to pretend he had not seen what he had seen, although it would have been terribly irresponsible of Brian to do so, as their manager, their friend and, as far as he knows, the only person they know with any real experience of the matter himself.

So he has no choice but to deal with John – which means dealing with John’s temper and his corrosive insecurities even when the only message he’d wanted to deliver is as simple as _please, please remember that what you do with each other is a crime and stop doing it in public._

And Brian’s dealing only with John of course strengthens Paul’s suspicions that Brian’s concern is driven by jealousy – an accusation which rankles, even though Paul has never actually come out and said it. Brian is a professional; his latent attraction to John is a footnote in their relationship, it doesn’t blind him and it’s certainly not the reason they get on.

It’s just that they seem to understand each other. Ritchie’s only been with them a few weeks, George would probably be quite happy going whole days without talking in full sentences and Paul is so alarmingly self-sufficient that Brian has the slightly jarring feeling they only really talk when Brian needs something from _him._

But John, for all his moods and posturing, makes sense to Brian.

He is quite sure, for example, that, for John, what happens with Paul is more than just sex and so he makes his voice very gentle to say,

“No one thinks you’re trouble, John, not for Paul and not for me. You know that’s not what I meant. All I wanted to say was – You know, the fuss if someone else catches you – It’s hardly worth it, John, that’s all.”

John watches him for a moment, the sort of odd, focussed gaze Brian always feels pinned by.

“Maybe not for a blowie,” he says, finally, almost shyly, and he smiles at Brian to show he is forgiven. He pushes off the wall and comes over, puts one hand on the door handle by Brian’s elbow.

For a moment, he is very close and Brian is very aware of it, thinks he can feel the heat coming off John’s skin against his own.

“Come on then, Eppy,” John says, lowly. “Any longer and they’ll think you’re having your wicked, wicked way with me.”

Brian steps aside and John opens the door.

“I’ll get you another pint, yeah? Drown those sorrows.”  
“Thanks,” says Brian, automatically, and John turns his head and winks at him before the door shuts behind him.

* * *

**iii (11.35 p.m.)**

“George!” Maureen calls. George half-turns his head and then, when he realises it’s her, he stops and waits and smiles at her when she catches up.

“Alright, Mo?”

Maureen likes George. She likes George best, after Ritchie, of course. She likes his serious face and how it changes when he smiles.

“Can I ask you something?” she says. He quirks his eyebrows at her.  
“You can _ask_ ,” he says. “Here, c’m’ere, let’s get out first.”

The air is already sharply colder than it had been when she was out here half an hour ago. She thinks longingly of her coat, still hung over the back of her chair to keep it – if she was out here with Ritchie or Paul, or even John on a good night, they’d have already shrugged off their jackets to put over her shoulders but it’s George and George doesn’t seem to notice.

He leads her a little way away from the doors, where they won’t be overheard. That’s good, because she’s already embarrassed and she hasn’t gotten close to saying it yet.

“Is it Ritchie?” he asks, shoving his hands in his pockets.   
“Oh, no – Should it be Ritchie?”

He shrugs. “No, it’s just – Y’know, that’s usually what – Well, anyway, go on, Mo. What’s wrong?”  
“Well,” she says. “Well, I saw – It’s about John. John and Paul. I was outside and they – I mean, I think I saw – No, I did see, I’m sure, it’s only – Do you know if –”

What had she seen?

Well, there was no mistaking it. That was what dark corners and the little alleyways behind clubs were made for. But she’d only wanted a piss and the line for the ladies was too long and she’d been desperate so she’d gone outside and round the corner.

She’d seen John head out a little while earlier but the alley had seemed empty so she guessed he’d gone back in and she hadn’t noticed.

It wasn’t empty but she realised that too late. John was tucked inside the back doorway of the club, pressed against the door with one hand over his own mouth and the other hand fisted in the hair of the person beneath him.

That was a bit of a shock, but only because she had just become friends with Cyn.

The real shock was a moment later when she recognised the girl on her knees in front of him – short-haired, tall even on her knees, too broad-shouldered to be a girl, actually, and the masculine line of her clothing like the suit Ritchie had been complaining about, the suit Brian wanted them all to wear on-stage – _very_ like it, which is when she realised it was Paul.

She had turned and fled. She didn’t look back to see if they’d seen her.

Once she was safely locked in one of the cubicles in the ladies bathroom she let herself panic. There’d been a boy like that on their street when she was younger – _a nice boy,_ her mum had always said, but she’d also warned Maureen to stay away from him. And she’d heard the rumours about Brian – rumours only because they were whispered, everyone seemed to agree it was true.

But John and Paul –

She was shocked and then quite suddenly she wasn’t. She wondered if perhaps she’d stumbled across the first time it had happened, the first time they’d gone for each other, and found that she didn’t believe it.

So they were – Well, they had to be, or something like it.

She had to tell or ask, find out from someone. George had seemed like the only good option, he’d known them for so long, surely it would not be a surprise –

But now, stood in front of him, she feels herself grow warm and shy at the idea of saying it out loud.

“John and Paul,” she says. “Do they – I mean, _are_ they –?”

His expression is impassive.

“I know that they’re not,” she says, hurriedly. “But – I saw – It’s only because I saw – Are they queer?”

George doesn’t say anything for a moment; she holds his gaze best she can, dragging the sleeve of her cardigan over her stinging fingers for warmth or protection.

She’s never thought of him as a boy from Speke until now, although she knows he is but, because he’s quiet, she’s always thought of him as someone who grew up with Paul, at their clever school, sort of soft, head-in-the-clouds type. He’s been Ritchie’s biggest champion, Ritchie’s always spoken of him fondly – oh goodness, what if they kick Ritchie out of the band –

Then he offers her a cigarette and then his matchbook.

She thinks maybe that means _yes, they are_.

“They both have girls,” he says. “You’ve met them, yeah? So they can’t be queer. They like girls.”

Maureen exhales smoke, passes his matchbook back. Now she’s started, she wants to go on. She wants to say, _yeah, but they seem to like each other too_. George turns the matchbook over in his hands. Then he pockets it.

“We’re gonna be huge, one day,” he says, with the conviction she’s started to see in Ritchie too. “The four of us. All four of us. Don’t you think it’s possible you were mistaken?”

No, she knows what she saw and if there’s another explanation – Well, she’d like to hear it.

But there’s something in George’s expression, something hard and fixed – she thinks if she pushes further, he might push back. It is more interesting than frightening – she hasn’t seen them like this off-stage before, a single, unshakeable unit instead of four separate, slightly discordant, personalities.

“I suppose it was dark,” she says.

He smiles at her. _There,_ she likes his smile, the nice, bright sort it’s impossible not to smile back at, same as Ritchie.

“Buy you a drink, Mo?” he offers. “C’mon, it’s freezing.”

* * *

**iv (11.45 p.m.)**

“Oi, knobhead,” George says and he smacks Paul across the back of his head as he passes.  
“Ow,” Paul says, one hand flying upwards to shield himself. He elbows George, hard, as he slots himself in against the bar. “The fuck was that for?”  
“Maureen saw you,” George says.

Paul frowns at him.

“Maureen saw me what?” he says.

George scowls at him. The most irritating thing about Paul is that he genuinely can be that oblivious.

“C’mon,” George says. “Just now.”  
“ _What_?” Paul insists.

George puts his tongue in the hollow of his cheek and brings his closed fist to his mouth.

Paul goes scarlet.

“I never,” he says, weakly. And then, “what? Just now?”  
“Yeah.”  
“Did she _tell you_?”  
“Yeah.”  
“Fucking _hell_ ,” Paul says. He pushes off the bar and turns towards the table where Maureen is just sitting down again next to Ringo. “What did she say?”  
“She said she probably made a mistake,” George says, putting a cigarette between his teeth to light it. “It was dark and all.”  
“Yeah?”  
“Yeah.”  
“Fucking hell,” Paul says. He sinks down again, elbows braced against the bar, his arm trembling against George’s. George nudges him, hard. “I think Brian saw as well,” Paul says, puts two fingers in his mouth and starts biting. “He’s been in the bathroom with Johnny for – Oh –”

John has swung the bathroom door open and sauntered out. A moment later, Brian follows him.

“John’s lucky night, hey?” George says, and Paul steps deliberately on his foot. “Ow.”  
“He wouldn’t,” Paul says, anxiously. John has stopped at the table, crouched down between Mo and Ringo to say something to them.

George focuses on his cigarette so he doesn’t have to think about how much Paul’s started to sound like John’s girlfriend.

“Alright, how are my two least favourite members of the band doing tonight?” John says, behind them. He swings an arm around both of them and pulls them in.  
“Up yours,” George says, succinctly.   
“Bloody great show tonight, boys, yeah?”  
“Yeah,” Paul says.   
“I think we might’ve been better than Little Dickie, and all.”  
“Don’t call him that,” Paul says. He starts worrying at his fingers again. John bats his hand gently down to stop him, squeezes his arm around Paul’s shoulders so Paul is turned briefly in against his chest and then lets him go. George wriggles free too.   
“Where is he tonight, anyway?” he says.   
“Dunno,” John says. “Maybe he left when he realised Macca wouldn’t give it up.”  
“Oh fuck off,” Paul says, irritably. He leans forward to catch the bartender’s attention.

Unperturbed, John smiles fondly at his back.

George considers elbowing him as well but it isn’t worth the retaliation.

“He wasn’t trying it with Paul,” he says.  
“Shows what you know, Georgie,” John says. “Macca, get two for me, yeah?”  
“Two for me, too,” George says.  
“Get your own damn beer,” Paul snaps, and then the bartender comes over and he smiles and says, “Five, ta.”  
“Atta boy,” John says.

Paul steps back, arms folded.

“What did Brian want, then?” he says.  
“Advice,” John says, lightly. “He wants to buy a new car.”  
“You can’t even drive,” George says. “Why’d he ask you?”  
“God, the joke just goes right over your head, doesn’t it, Hari?”  
“Don’t be a dick to him, John, he’s only saying there’s no point in lying if you’re going to make it that transparent.”

John sneers at him.

“Brian said he doesn’t want to go back to daddy’s record store so can we please play nice and make sure it’s only girls we defile outside.”

Paul makes a face at him.

“George says Mo saw us outside,” he says. John’s smirk disappears.  
“Fuck, really? Saw us – Together?” He twists round. At their table, Maureen and Ringo are kissing, lazily. “What did she say?”  
“She said she’d made a mistake,” George says, tiredly. “Because it was dark.”  
“Oh,” says John. “Oh. Well, that’s alright then, isn’t it? Paul?”  
“I suppose,” Paul says.

They’re staring at each other. George can tell from Paul’s eyebrows and John’s short-sighted squint that they’re having one of their incredibly irritating silent conversations. He rolls his eyes and reaches for his and Maureen’s pints when they’re brought over.

“Are you going to tell Ritchie?” he says.   
“No,” Paul says.  
“Maybe,” John says, at the same time. 

Paul glowers at him.

“What?” he says. “ _No_ , we’re _not_ telling anyone – Bad enough Brian knows, and now Mo –”  
“And me,” George says.  
“Why not?” John says. “Ringo doesn’t mind about Eppy, does he?”  
“Brian’s different,” Paul says, stiffly.   
“Well, George knows and he doesn’t mind –”  
“I do mind,” George says, but they ignore him.   
“He’ll find out eventually, he’s bound to,” John says. He leans in to pick up his pints as well, turns his head against Paul’s to say something against his ear.

Paul flushes. George makes gagging noises. John kicks him.

“We can discuss it,” Paul says, still pink. “But we aren’t saying anything – John, yes? We aren’t saying anything right now, yeah?”  
“Of course not,” John says. He's smiling at Paul, the hooded, flirtatious, distinctly interested way he looks at girls he wants to make it with.

They probably don't have to tell Ringo; just sit him in a room with them for long enough, he'll cotton on eventually. 

* * *

**v (2.45 a.m.)**

“Christ, where _is_ he?” Paul says. He’s huddled in on himself, his arms crossed tight over his chest, his coat buttoned up to the chin and he’s still shivering.

George and Ringo and Brian had done the sensible thing and gone back into the club after five minutes of waiting. John thought that if he drank anymore he would do something embarrassing, like fall asleep or be sick on the way home. Paul, for reasons of his own, had stayed out with him, complaining profusely about the cold like John could do something about it. Well - 

“Are we talking Little Richard or Neil, now?” John asks, unwinding his scarf.

Paul spares him a look, one of his most disdainful.

“ _Neil_ ,” he says. “I’m freezing my balls off.”  
“What a loss that would be,” John agrees. “C’mere.”

He puts the scarf around Paul’s neck and busies himself arranging it so he doesn’t have to make eye contact. He doesn’t like it when Paul looks soft; it gets into his skin, catches, tears.

“I’m sorry he didn’t come by, Paulie,” he says, once he’s stepped back. “Ciggie?”  
“Ta.” Their fingers brush; electricity. “It’s alright, Johnny.”  
“We’ll see him again, anyway,” John continues. “Light?”  
“Ta.”  
“And it wasn’t – I mean, it wasn’t a completely disappointing night, was it? I mean, because he didn’t show.”  
“Nah,” Paul says, glances over, smiling. “Not _complete_ _ly_ disappointing.”

John watches him bring the cigarette to his mouth, wishes they were alone.

“Good,” he says. “’Cos it’s his loss, and all. Y’know. Can’t imagine passing up an evening with you, even when I’m a big star and all.”  
“Well, I hope not,” Paul says, smartly. “Considering we’ll all be big stars together.”  
“Probably not Lu,” John says, and grins when Paul starts coughing. “Alright there, son?”  
“Don’t make me laugh,” Paul says.

He shifts, just a little, until their shoulders are pressed together. Paul’s still shivering, the familiar line of his body against John’s, side-by-side.

“Where d’you reckon he was, though?” Paul asks, after a while.   
“Neil? Dunno, reckon he went to get food or something. Found a girl. I dunno.”  
“No, Little Richard.”

John looks at him, beyond exasperated, his heart so full of whatever it is he feels when he looks at Paul that he can feel it spilling over, warming him up from the inside: the straight slope of his nose, the little orange glow burning at the end of his fag, the fan of his dark lashes. _Christ_.

John shoves him.

“Fucking git,” John mutters, smiling around his ciggie when Paul pushes him right back. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you, never meet your heroes?”  
“Haven’t had the chance,” Paul mutters.


End file.
